


Last First Time

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Time, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Pre-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the day before the fall, and Sherlock wants to spend it with his closest friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock lies down on his back on the bed and stares silently up at a grinning John. John's lips land on Sherlock's to join in a hungry kiss. After a moment or two without any positive response, John pulls back with a frown.

“You okay? If you don’t want to do this tonight, we can do something else. Maybe watch the telly…?”

Sherlock purses his lips.

“No, John. I do want this.”

Sherlock makes to join in, but John can see right through him. John takes his hands off Sherlock’s knees and sits back on his heels, perplexed. Sherlock pushes himself up onto his elbows to look him in the eye.

“What’s going on?” John asks.

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm perfectly fine,” is all Sherlock says before sitting up the rest of the way. 

John notices the sudden dew drops forming at the corners of Sherlock’s icy eyes.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John’s voice takes on a softer timbre. “Tell me what’s going on.” John wipes Sherlock's tears away with the corner of the sheet. "You know you can tell me anything." 

“Don’t you see that I can’t talk about it? He’ll come after you. He’ll hurt you. Kill you!”

Concern splashes across John’s face.

“What are you talking about? Who? Who is threatening you?”

He can't tell John. He simply can't. It's too much of a risk. He can't ask John to put himself in such danger. He couldn't stand it if John died due to his indiscretion. Sherlock holds back a sob. He might have to kill himself tomorrow, but how in the world is he supposed to tell John that? He needs this comfort from John, and he needs it right this second.

“John, don’t make me ask you again. _Please_.”

It's the "please" that shocks him most. Though he and Sherlock have grown closer, the word scarcely comes out into the open. Obviously Sherlock needs him. 

“Alright. Alright, Sherlock. Whatever you need. Just tell me if…”

“You know I will.”

“Right.”

It’s hard to get back into the right mood when your partner has only recently stopped crying. The evidence is smeared across his face: red splotches, tear tracks, snotty nose. He looks like an injured thing, and John is supposed to be fucking him like there’s nothing wrong.

He reminds himself why he’s doing this and strokes his cock back to full hardness. He pulls the lube out from a bedside drawer and carefully prepares Sherlock. He’s running on pure sensation now; he has no great desire to fuck Sherlock, only to hold him, shelter him. He allows himself to do both by resting his weight on Sherlock’s upper body and thrusting in. Suddenly, he’s surrounded by heat, and it’s lovely and smooth, but it feels wrong, so wrong. Sherlock doesn't really want this, but he’s begged him for it. John doesn't know what else to do but be gentle with his fragile friend.

After several dragged out minutes of silence, John speaks up. It’s unbearable.

“Are you even enjoying this?”

Sherlock looks away. Even Sherlock has his tells.

John slows his pace even further.

“Look at me and honestly tell me that you want this.”

Sherlock turns his head back to John to look him straight in the eye. He swallows over a lump in his throat before answering.

“Fuck me like it’s the last time you’ll ever do it.”

John’s eyes widen and the uncomfortable burning sensation that had been only a fizzle in his chest roars to life.

“Sherlock?”

He can’t even bring himself to ask a full question. He’s too choked with emotion to do anything but wait for an answer that he knows will never come.

Sherlock surges up then to press a kiss to John’s lips. He begs with his mouth for John to continue. He can’t say it aloud. He can’t, he can’t, he _can’t_.

It’s John’s turn choke up.

“Sherlock, you bastard,” he sobs, pulling slightly away. He doesn’t stop fucking him, afraid he or Sherlock will fly to pieces if he does. He feels like a machine. Like someone’s scooped out every emotion except cold fear at this moment. “Don’t leave me.”

 _I would never purposely leave you, John Watson_ , he doesn’t say.

“Fuck me harder. Like it’s the last time.”

Tears flow freely as John does his best to listen to Sherlock, too afraid of disappointing him to stop.

“What happens if I do? Will you leave? Will you be gone once this is over?”

Sherlock answers none of his questions but holds on tightly to his friend, locking his ankles over John’s sweaty back.

“No, John. I swear to you that I will stay with you as long as possible,” Sherlock vows.

John’s only marginally relieved, and he thrusts with abandon, at once trying to get this over with and drag it out as long as possible. As the minutes stretch on, he grunts from holding back. John, too frightened to stop and wanting to hold back for as long as he can, clings to Sherlock with all his might.

“It’s okay if you let go.”

John’s frown deepens.

“No. No, I can’t,” in murmured into the side of Sherlock's neck.

“John.”

“No, Sherlock. This will go all night if it means you’re here, with me.”

“ _John_.”

And it’s that tender way he speaks that does him in. It’s been an eternity. He comes with a pained shout. It’s Sherlock’s time to hold John close, hushing his sobs and soothing his fears. John’s fatigue finally catches up with him, and he falls asleep in Sherlock’s arms.

A plan is being set into motion, but for now, he will hold his John and remember why he’s doing this.


	2. Chapter 2

I hold John in my arms and contemplate how this may be the last time I ever do so. Tomorrow, I will meet Moriarty on the rooftop and will say good-bye to everything and everyone I love. There aren’t a great many people I’ve become close with over my fairly short life, but the ones who truly matter will be protected. I wouldn’t let my self-loathing get in the way of keep innocents out of harm’s way.

John shifts in my arms and slits his eyes open like he cannot decide whether or not he wants to wake. His eyelids droop again, and he burrows into my chest. I stroke his blondish hair in the hopes of soothing the aches that are yet to come. I don’t mean to seem as I am presuming to matter to most, but I comfort myself with the idea that John will care. He always has when many others have not.

John’s legs twitch against mine in sleep. I wonder what he’s dreaming about. I suppose I shall never know, for tomorrow I will either die or leave the country for an indeterminate number of years. I move my fingers from his hand and caress down his back, careful to skip over the healed wound on his shoulder. No need to cause John more ache and worry. I’ll be doing enough of that tomorrow. 

I can almost see myself now, on the rooftop of St. Bart’s. It’s a long way down. Landing on a mat will hurt; landing on the concrete will kill. Death would be nearly instant, if not exactly so. I’ve thought about it dozens of times already. It won’t be the first time I attempt “suicide.” The drugs and drink have always been dark avenues for me. If only I could take something to numb me before the upcoming faceoff.

As always, my thoughts trail back to John. What will my blogger do? I would tell him of my plan if it wouldn’t put him in immediate danger. Mummy, Daddy, and Mycroft know, as well as Molly and a few nameless acquaintances who roam the streets. I’m calling it “The Homeless Network.” I know it’s not catchy, but I think it will stick. The people I’ve informed will keep my John safe.

It’s such a shame, really, to have to leave John after this, of all evenings. Calling it “sex” sounds too dirty and calling it “making love” sounds cheap. It was an act of mutual respect and care. I’ve heard the word “love” thrown about so carelessly that I don’t feel comfortable saying that to John. I don’t want to insult him with meaningless clichés. He means too much to me. I hope tonight he’s realized that.

I promised him that I will remain here as long as I can. It’s a promise that I intend to keep. 

I kiss John on the forehead and wish him sweet dreams. It sounds silly, but it’s something my mother used to do for me as a child. It always made sleeping a calmer process. I’ve never been one to enjoy surrendering my consciousness to the unknown. But now is a good time to rest. Tomorrow will be here in a few short hours, and I want John to be ready. Or as ready as one can be for the sudden “death” of a friend.

That is what John Watson is above all else. He is my friend.

I pull the covers up around us and try to sleep. I flicker between wakefulness and sleep. I smile when John lets out a soft snore. He feels safe with me, I gather. I tighten my arms around him and try not to feel too stricken by grief by this moment. I will hold onto this moment for as long as I can.


End file.
